


The Lie of Pompousness

by CrazyPierrsonMan



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Fluff, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Romance, Swearing, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13404996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyPierrsonMan/pseuds/CrazyPierrsonMan
Summary: “How come… how come ya never told me ‘bout yer past, Pierre?” Larson asked, his voice gentle and quiet.And so, Pierre tells Larson about his childhood, his parents, growing up gay in 1960's-1970's France, and his life-long dream of becoming a globetrotting adventurer. (Released Jan 17 2018--happy birthday, Pierre!)





	The Lie of Pompousness

**Author's Note:**

> Holy hell, this is a beast of a fic. It sits at just about 20 pages in Word 2016. Firstly, the Implied/Referenced Homophobia tag is meant as a warning only--it DOES NOT reflect my beliefs or personal stance. Secondly, I did a lot of research on various aspects of France, but I apologize if I've gotten anything historically incorrect. Thirdly, there are a lot of little Tomb Raider-related references scattered throughout this fic. Try and find them!

“…’n after that, I joined the military,” Larson continued, “I never really wanted to. Pa served in the Vietnam War, so he thought it was ‘only right’ I enlisted too. I always wanted—well, it’s silly.” He paused a moment, glancing bashfully over at Pierre and returned to drying the dishes. “But… I guess you wouldn’t really be the judgin’ type concernin’ me, wouldja Boss?”

Chuckling as he ran a rag across the bottom of a glass within now-murky dishwater, Pierre added, “ _Non,_ _amour._ Continue, _s’il vous plaît?”_

Larson nodded, smiling, and did just that, hanging the black frying pan up above the stove. “Well, I always wanted to… see the world. I grew up watchin’ Indiana Jones—damn, did Clint Eastwood used to be a hot bastard—‘n I wanted to go on adventures like he did. See the world and make it past traps ‘n have daring adventures… Guess I got my wish.”

“And so,” Pierre added, passing a newly-cleaned plate “This is what led you and I met in Nicaragua, _oui?”_

Laughing, Larson’s smile turned to a grin as he continued. “You bet yer ass! I did graduate ‘n all, but they didn’t want me. Commander Felicity, bless her sexy soul, didn’t want me in her platoon ‘cause of the fact that, well, I’m a dumbass.”

“ _Non!”_ Pierre said pointedly. His face had turned grave, and he pointed a fork at his lover to punctuate his thought.

“You are not the dumbass! I will not lie to you,” he said, lowering the fork a little, “ _mon amour,_ you do not have the cunning of a scientist, but not every man need be as smart!”

Larson grabbed the fork out of Pierre’s hand and opened the cutlery drawer, dropping it within before shutting it again. “Yeah, I s’pose so,” he admitted, shrugging sheepishly.

“Anyway, Felicity was the first woman—person, I should say—that I really loved. I don’t think she ever felt the same, but I took her to supper one night ‘n she suggested the life of a mercenary,” he concluded.

After pulling the plug on the dirty dishwater, Pierre dried his hands on the soft towel that he kept on the oven door handle, then offered his left hand to Larson, who accepted it gratefully. Headed toward the couch now, the pair sat down as Larson began to ramble about the logistics of a revolver versus a semi-auto pistol.

The two had made dinner together. Larson, bless his heart, didn’t know how to cook anything more complicated than tinned meat and beans, so Pierre had gotten it in his head to try and teach his old dog new tricks. It had worked—more or less.

A traditional fried chicken dinner was created. It turned out that Larson really enjoyed mashing the potatoes and steaming the corn, and coating the raw chicken was no issue… but the actual act of frying was too complex for now. The first few nuggets had turned out burnt before Pierre took over, in hopes of salvaging what was left.

It was a good meal, and Larson had proclaimed that due to it being a joint effort of love, it tasted even better. Pierre was simply glad it was over, and the food was passable to his sensibilities. Leaning into Larson now, resting on his shoulder, a soft smile spread across his lips and, as Larson wrapped his arm around him, he closed his eyes and sighed in contentment.

Moments of silence passed, and Pierre wondered what they should do for the rest of the night. An old film? Brigitte Bardot sounded nice. Maybe just relax and read while Larson tried another puzzle? Or maybe… sex? Sex sounded great. Opening his eyes, he went to look up at Larson to make his suggestion—only to catch hazel eyes staring down into his, Larson’s gazed transfixed on him.

“How come… how come ya never told me ‘bout yer past, Pierre?” Larson asked, his voice gentle and quiet.

Pierre was stunned, and a little taken aback. It was true—in all the time they’d been together, he’d never really spoken much about his life prior to wielding the dual magnum pistols and seeking artifacts across the globe.

Maybe it embarrassed him. Maybe it wasn’t important to him. Or maybe it was just something he didn’t want to revisit.

Larson was still staring into Pierre’s eyes, his expression tender and patient. Sighing, Pierre looked away and spoke, raising his right hand to stroke his goatee.

“I… suppose I do owe this much of you.”

Larson pulled him closer. “You don’t gotta tell me nothin’ ya don’t wan—”

“ _Non_ ,” Pierre interrupted, _“Non,_ I… I must let you know. I can’t evade speaking of this any longer.”

He pushed himself up, bring his arm back to his side and sighing. Slouched over with both arms together, wrists laying limply between his knees, Pierre’s eyes were still closed. Larson inched himself next to his lover, and placed a supportive hand on his back, stroking it gently.

Pierre took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened his mouth to speak.

“I was not always living this well. As a boy, you see… we were actually—very poor.”

 

***

 

Mireille Dupont opened the door with a bang, wincing at the noise as she did so. Closing it behind her gently as she surveyed the kitchen, she mused that her house was no warmer than outside. It was a chill day in mid-September, and the drafts leaking in through the closed windows reminded her that her husband and son were no warmer than she was on her trip to the pawn shop. When would they ever be able to afford heavy curtains?

“Well?” came a steely voice from the living room, coming closer now to the front door. “Is it done?”

Mireille sighed, pushing a long lock of brunette hair back behind her ear. “Yes, my love. But…” She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat, then resumed speaking in a cool, even tone. “…The man at the shop gave me only 40 francs for it.”

Her husband stared at her, then gaped, then clenched his fists. Eyes wide, brow furrowed, forehead veins bulging, he began turning red. Mireille flinched, expecting another screaming match, but he instead softened instantly, collapsing in a chair on the kitchen table and laying his head in his arms.

She could tell he was sobbing.

Mireille straightened her dress slightly in discomfort—men crying always bothered her. She was raised that men were strong and powerful, that they never showed signs of weakness. With her husband, tears were more common these days, having lost his job and the three of them just barely scraping by.

Deep down, she knew it was harder on him, the protector of the family reduced to this. He could not help but display his sorrow, and it broke her heart each time it happened.

Putting personal discomfort aside, Mireille walked over to her husband, draping herself over him, petting his arm and kissing him on the temples.

“My Jean-Claude…” she whispered. “It doesn’t pain me too badly to have to pawn my jewelry. They’re expensive trifles meant for good times—I can get more when things are better again.”

Teary-eyed, he glanced up into Mireille’s green eyes, and whispered back, “Mireille—it was your engagement ring. A symbol of our love and you just—you just—had to sell it. And for no more than 40 francs. I’m…” Jean-Claude paused, sighing, “I’m such a failure…”

He resumed crying, and Mireille watched him, gazing with immense loneliness and sadness for her broken man. Her voice caught in her throat as she wondered what to say, knowing she should offer _something…_ but ultimately ended at a loss for words.

It was there that Pierre entered. A short, pale boy in a worn shirt lazily stitched together, pants with patched holes on the knees and sides. His little face was pressed with worry, lips pursed as he watched his father cry from the doorway.

“Mommy?” he began, “Why is Daddy crying?”

 

“I bet you were the cutest li’l boy,” Larson began with a smile. They were holding hands now, relaxed back on the couch, Pierre staring off into the distance while he recounted this childhood memory. Pierre snapped his head over, looking into Larson’s eyes in mild confusion. After a moment, he smiled and laughed—reaching over to run his free hand through Larson’s hair.

“ _Merci, mon cher,”_ he replied.

 

“Little man, you don’t need to worry about that,” Mireille said tenderly. Jean-Claude wiped his eyes and sat up, too abruptly to be convincing to his child. Smiling, he girded his feelings to conceal them, but Pierre knew even then that his father wore his heart on his sleeve. Pierre frowned, but chose not to ask about what was happening.

“…Can I help with anything?” he asked carefully, and his mother walked over to pat him on the head, rubbing his hair gently. As he stared up into her eyes, she gave a sad smile.

“Will you help Mama make supper?” Mireille replied. “We’re going to make chicken bouillon broth again. The homemade bread Daddy made is still good, so we’ll have that too.”

Pierre’s first reaction was to complain about the same meal three nights in a row, but instead he chose to nod, following his mother to prepare their evening meal, while Jean-Claude shuffled off sadly for a rest, citing fatigue.

Dinner went well—his parents weren’t quiet this time, they even laughed like they did when times were good. But Pierre couldn’t find himself shaking the feeling of discomfort, and asked to go out and play after dinner.

Not far from the house was a small forest, the leaves dying off in brilliant oranges, reds, and browns. The trees stood tall and imposing, yet somehow it seemed at the same time nurturing and kind. It was where Pierre went whenever he felt troubled, or just wanted to go away for a while.

He wasn’t very good at it, at least in his opinion, but as Pierre looked up, he was determined to try and climb one of smaller trees. As he glanced around, he spied one with some low-hanging branches; rushing over, he attempted to get a foothold on the trunk.

Pierre never could remember a successful climb as a child. He never remembered seeing a grand view and feeling like his problems were small. But it was fun—and it was the distraction he’d needed.

 

“I woulda gone on adventures with ya!” Larson interrupted. “I woulda climbed up trees and made sure we got up as high as we could go—ohhh, wait,” he said, cutting himself off. Pierre laughed again, nodding as he let go of Larson’s hand, thrusting his palms outward.

“When you were a 4-year-old, I was 20 years of age,” Pierre agreed. “It may not have worked how we wished.”

Larson shrugged, and responded, “Well, can’t blame a feller for tryin’.”

 

***

 

As a teen, Pierre could remember heading home one day with the goofiest grin on his lips, rushing to open the door and shutting it abruptly. Something had happened, and it had been wonderful. It was going to be his own special secret—something he would never even write about in his private journal that he saved up to buy.

“Mom! Dad, I’m home,” he called as he entered the kitchen. He was eager to get a glass of water—he had more or less jogged home, wanting to sit down and once again recount the events of the day.

But Pierre was struck by the absence of a staple in his house since he was small—the kitchen table. It was one of the few nice pieces of furniture they had owned, a sturdy piece of oak wood with redwood legs, and though it was mismatched, its finish shone, and its surface was filled with memories of baking and evening meals.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

The sound of someone, presumably his father, hammering nails into the wall resounded throughout the house, a din that seemed to shake the tiny home at its foundation. Pierre’s face fell as he approached the sitting room, where his father’s drunken friend had crashed into the wall a month prior, leaving a hole the size of his head. The man had promised to bring lumber to patch it up, but they had never heard from him again.

Pierre knew, suddenly, why the kitchen table was missing. Sawdust was scattered across the ground, the rusting saw laying not far from Jean-Claude’s squatting form. The remnants of the kitchen table laid on the ground, cut into strips as makeshift 2x4 pieces of lumber.

He decided to try and scurry off to his room, his mattress sounding like a good place to lie low. Father wasn’t going to be in a good mood, and _History & Geography in Babylon_ sounded like a great escape. Backing up quietly, he slowly turned to slink away.

 

“Dang,” Larson called from the kitchen, fetching Pierre a glass of water. “Y’all couldn’t afford lumber?”

Shrugging, Pierre sighed. “It was a different time and place. It is not one I often wish to revisit.” Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his seat as Larson brought him the water, seating himself next to Pierre once more.

 

On that day, fate wasn’t so kind, however—bumping into his mother, she gasped in surprise and steadied Pierre from falling by placing her hands on his shoulders. Looking up into his mother’s eyes, surprised, he smiled sheepishly and began to say, “I’m sor—”

“Pierre,” his mother said sternly, cutting him off. “I found out what happened during math class.”

Suddenly, fear arose in Pierre’s heart; he had never expected his mother to react in this way, but somehow, he could sense that his parents’ response to what happened that day wasn’t going to be a happy one.

“M-mom,” he began, stammering anxiously, his voice catching in his throat.

Ensuring his handiwork was secure, Jean-Claude set the hammer down and stood, massaging his knuckles absentmindedly.

“What happened during math? He’s no troublemaker, dear; surely—”

“A troublemaker, no, but a _sinner_ ,” Mireille said in hushed tones, dropping her hands from her son’s shoulders. Her lips drew close together, worry and anger painted on her face.

“On my way home from market, I heard you kissed the Moreau boy. He told me when I met him buying sweets—he said he’d needed to _wash out his mouth.”_

Jean-Claude gaped momentarily, his teeth clenching and his brows knitting together. Shaking with rage, he began to shout.

“ _Good God, child, what the hell have you done?!”_

Pierre looked up at his parents, eyes darting from mother to father and back again. He licked his lips quickly, and tried his best to summon the words.

“It-it was only a d-dare. Ada told me I should—”

“Don’t yell at the boy!” Mireille said, cutting her son off, and casting a momentary glare at her husband. Turning toward her son then, her gaze was filled with concern.

“Pierre,” she started, “My child. To kiss another man in an act of romantic love is a sin against God. And you can never, _ever_ do that again. Dare or not, you do not kiss men in a passionate way like the Moreau boy described.”

Biting his lower lip, Pierre nodded, averting his eyes from his mother.

 

“My poor baby,” Larson muttered, wrapping an arm around Pierre’s shoulder. Pierre reached for Larson’s hand slowly, and he grasped it tight.

“I hope you know it weren’t right of her to do that to ya,” Larson finished. Nodding, Pierre placed his head on Larson’s strong shoulder, his lover pulling him closer.

One minute passed, another—and Larson could stand the silence no more, and cleared his throat to speak.

“Well… uh,” he started, pensively trying to offer some new conversation.

Pierre shook his head, looking at the depowered television, wondering if he should cut the story short here. It was a hard memory, and a sore spot for them both; he didn’t want to relive this moment any more than he wanted to make Larson uncomfortable.

“Um,” Larson started once more, “How was your first kiss? Was it special?”

Pierre rolled his eyes, his gaze meeting Larson’s. “It was _fantastique, idiot,”_ he professed. “He was a blond boy with short hair, lovely eyes. But he _was_ just a boy. Grown men have always been more favorable, ah?”

Larson chuckled, “Yeah, I do like ‘em older.”

The two sighed, enjoying the quiet for a moment.

“I will continue,” Pierre stated, Larson squeezing him tight again.

 

“But… Mom—kissing him, it—felt—it felt so nice,” he choked, body tensing as he crossed his arms.

“ _IT IS A SIN! AND SINNERS BURN IN HELL!”_ Jean-Claude shouted, arms shooting in the air, fists balled. Pierre recoiled, eyes screwing shut, taking steps back from his parents. Mireille rushed to get between her husband and son, hands on her hips as she directed her anger and shame toward Jean-Claude.

“Do _not_ yell at him! There’s no reason he can’t be saved! We’ll pray every night, say grace before dinner—”

Pierre could bear no more. His mother and father were still fighting as he dashed out the door, away from his house, into the protection of the forest.

It was almost like a third parent to him now, a second mother in its gentle silence. And tonight, it was a solace as well, the quietude seeming to comfort him as he tried desperately to fight off tears that were threatening to surface.

He found at last the perfect place to sit, to recollect and reflect on everything. Here, a great tree rose to the heavens, its branches stretching out in beautiful, full green leaves. Pierre swore it had to be in the center of the forest.

At the base, he sat quietly. Closing his eyes, Pierre finally let himself shed the bitter, conflicted sadness welling within, that he could no longer hold back. And he thought of Nathan Moreau, the first boy he thought he’d ever really loved.

How could he do this to him?

Was Pierre really so… disgusting? Or was it just kissing another boy?

He trusted Nathan. And that trust was shattered in an instant.

 

Larson was stunned into silence. “Did… did things ever get better for ya?”

Pierre chuckled, but Larson could tell it was forced. “ _Oui,_ when I left for university. Before then, I never so much as spoke to another boy, for fear of my father and mother claiming romance.”

“Well…” Larson began, “Ya got better at that, didn’tcha?”

“ _Non,”_ Pierre replied. “This is all but a delusion you’re having. You drank too much of the moonshine last night in the trailer park.”

Larson paused for a moment, thinking. Speaking slowly, eyes wide and brows furrowed in confusion, he said, “…But—my family never made no moonshine before.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Pierre shook his head quickly. “Never mind. Would you like to hear about my time at the university?”

Shrugging, Larson nodded, waiting patiently for Pierre to keep going with his tale.

 

***

 

He had decided long before entering _lycées_ —high school, he presently explained to Larson—that he wanted to become an archaeologist. It was a perfect fit; he could escape his parents, this town, and get to know a world he had only dreamed of, one he’d only ever seen in books. Greece, Egypt, Peru, Rome—it was exciting and frightening, and Pierre knew he had to do it.

Unfortunately, it was five long years of working hard to get out of the hole he’d been in, to work out of the poverty that consumed him since childhood. He wanted no help from his parents, nothing that would make him have ties to them after he had gone.

Yes, Pierre wanted to be in the debt of no one. Not anymore. Not since…

 

“So ya started a li’l late, that don’t matter. It don’t make me think any less of ya, either. We can skip to college proper if ya like,” Larson interjected.

They were standing on their balcony now, both leaned over the metal railing, looking out on Paris as the sun set in a brilliant lavender and pink. Sounds of the city floated below them, and Pierre tentatively reached out for Larson’s hand, touching a travel-hardened palm, and his hand was grasped gratefully.

“ _Oui,_ let us move forward,” he replied, glancing at Larson from the corner of his eye.

 

University life paradoxically seemed much more relaxed. Despite that he worked and was attending school, the fact that he was free of his parents, his drafty, dilapidated home… it was almost like he was given a new lease on life.

And soon, he’d hoped that he’d be free of France in and of itself—Pierre Dupont, he asserted to himself, was going to be an archaeologist. Traveling the world in search of relics of the forgotten past, generously donating new finds to a museum—he’d even have his picture in the national papers.

It was giddying, almost dizzying to think of the excitement the future held for him. Pierre wanted to learn all about the history of the world, from the time of early men to the Roman Empire, even the Renaissance and Industrial Era. Whenever inspiration struck him, he scurried off toward the university library, rushing to the nonfiction section as soon as he stepped inside.

Hurriedly taking off his evergreen coat, he placed his brown gloves in its pockets and set the whole thing on the back of a nearby chair. Today, the history of Roman Emperors would be the knowledge Pierre supped on. Using his left hand to brush some errant snowflakes off the top of his orange turtleneck, he used his right to run his index finger along the spines of the books as he scanned the titles.

Caesar was old news—today, Pierre craved something _new_. Something he hadn’t ever heard of before. Grabbing some unfamiliar book that, he mused, he couldn’t remember the name of today, he placed it in the palm of his left hand, his right flipping to the table of contents.

It was there he saw an unfamiliar name in a later chapter: _Hadrian._

It would be him today, then. Glancing up momentarily, his eyes were drawn to the chair his coat was resting on. It and three other chairs surrounded a nearby table. Turning his gaze back to the book, Pierre reached out and pulled the chair with his coat from its resting place, sitting down with his eyes affixed squarely to the text.

Reading about Hadrian’s rule was fascinating—Pierre decided that he must’ve indeed been a great man. It was one paragraph, however, that seared itself into his mind…

_Hadrian is most famously known for being the only openly homosexual Roman Emperor. After the death of his lover, Antinous, Hadrian had him deified and worshiped as a god. Further, he founded the city Antinopolis close to the place of Antinous’ death. Games were held in his honor, and currency made in his visage._

Pierre nearly dropped the book.

Immediately after, he leaned in closer to the book while simultaneously bringing it more toward his face, his right hand clasping over his face as he repeatedly reread the passage, right middle finger brushing over his mustache softly.

 

“Ya only had a mustache back when you’s in college, Boss?” Larson asked, a cheeky grin on his face. Reaching up, he draped his left arm across Pierre’s shoulders, rubbing them gently. “Can’t say I can picture that.”

Pierre blew air up at his bangs, rolling his eyes up at the dark sky. “Larson, this is an important part of the story. And _this_ is what you choose to fixate on?”

Shrugging, Larson leaned in closer to Pierre, squeezing his arm tight around his boyfriend. “I think Hadrian ‘n Antinous sounded like they had a pure love.”

Pierre nodded, turning his head toward Larson. “ _Oui, mon amour,_ theirs was a love gifted by the heavens.”

Larson stared into Pierre’s eyes for a moment, then Pierre reached up to wrap his arm around Larson’s waist. They took pause, letting the story, the hustle and bustle below, their very beings stop for a second, to reflect on one another and the meaning they’ve added to each other’s lives.

After a while, Pierre went to break the silence.

“So,” he began, “You have heard of the first boy I ever loved. Would you like to hear of the first boy who ever loved me?”

Larson tilted his head a little, silently chortling through his nose. “Well, what’s the difference?”

Pierre gave a sheepish smile and began to respond, “Well, you see…”

 

He returned every other day to the library, trying to find more information on this most intriguing Emperor. Not much was to be found about Hadrian, and if it did, it mentioned Antinous only in passing. Several weeks out from his initial discovery, he seemed at the end of his rope.

Pierre finally admitted it to himself—his attempts at finding any more information on the gay Roman Emperor were being frustrated. He needed to learn more, needed to find out about a man who was a homosexual just as he was, and accomplished awe-inspiring feats and acts of eternal love. It was like finding Pandora’s Box; all his repressed feelings were suddenly unleashed, and even if he _wanted_ to try, Pierre did not think he could seal them back away.

At long last, he chose to approach the tall, tan librarian for information. He would be careful about it, saying it was for research on an annotated essay. The man’s name tag helpfully read _Félix;_ and so, a smile on his face, Pierre placed his hands on the counter, and took a deep breath.

“Hello. Pardon me, but I was wondering if you knew of any books about a Roman Emperor…” he began.

Félix brushed an errant lock of black hair back behind his ear, his eyes flicking up and down across Pierre’s torso, and back up to his face. Pierre’s shoulders tensed uncomfortably in response.

Licking his lips, the librarian responded evenly, “We’ve many books on Roman Emperors. I’d have thought you were familiar with that section by now—”

“N-no,” Pierre replied a little too eagerly, cutting Félix off. “There’s a… specific Emperor I want information on.”

Pursing his lips, Félix interjected, “And there are many of _those,_ as well. Which _one,_ sir?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Pierre hesitated a moment, then at last spoke.

“H-Hadrian.”

Félix’s eyes lit up in recognition, and Pierre noticed. After a moment, he added carefully, “It’s for an essay, you see. I need my sources.”

Chuckling, Félix shook his head. “I know _why_ you have to know about Hadrian. You aren’t taking classes on Ancient Rome, are you. They’re not offered this term.”

As the color drained out of Pierre’s face, he began to stammer. Félix reached up to adjust his circle-frame glasses, and smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in his dress shirt.

“I know much about Hadrian, you see, Mister…?”

“Dupont,” Pierre replied. “Pierre Dupont.”

“I see,” Félix said softly. “It’s a lovely name. Pierre, perhaps we could discuss all about Hadrian and Antinous over a nice dinner at Chez Louis, say around 8 PM?”

Pierre was stunned into silence, and after a moment, nodded enthusiastically.

“Y-yes, I’d absolutely love to. Thank you very much!”

Félix chuckled again, and leaned in toward Pierre. Quietly, he said, “You don’t need to thank someone for asking you on a date, silly.”

Pierre felt himself turning red slowly, and stumbled over an attempted reply, but cut himself off. Sighing, he tugged at the collar of today’s turtleneck—this one green—and gave a small grin.

“See you then, Félix.”

He walked off, out of the library, and back toward the dorms, all the while wondering what he should wear.

 

***

 

Pierre had figured Félix only wore a suit as part of his job at the library—but he had shown up to that first date wearing a gray pinstripe safari jacket and matching bellbottom pants, a bold pink dress shirt, and, Pierre noticed, a different pair of circle-frame glasses, these ones tinted amber.

They had made quite the mismatched couple; Pierre had obvious secondhand clothes—his own bellbottoms had fraying on the end that was just noticeable, if you looked closely enough.

Nonetheless, their time Chez Louis was wonderful, even if Pierre couldn’t recall talking about anything more than academic subjects. As for Félix, he was a perfect gentleman, not even asking for an invitation to Pierre’s dorm.

Pierre fell asleep that night with hearts in his eyes and passion in his soul. His first date with a man—and Félix had intently persuaded him to join him on another in a week.

It seemed almost like an agonizing wait, but in the meantime, he had decided that it wouldn’t do to come in the same thrift shop clothing as last time. No, this was a special occasion that required something special, so off to the men’s boutique he went, and came out with not one, but three different quality outfits that set him back a pretty penny—but the ends justified the means.

On the second date, Pierre and Félix went to the cinema, and bought crêpes afterword as they strolled through a snowy park. And this time, Pierre relaxed, and the two spoke at length about philosophy, science, the arts, and more.

Amidst their conversation, Félix invited Pierre back to his flat, and they resumed talking on the drive over, about life, childhood anecdotes, and soon they were on Félix’s couch. It was nearly midnight as they continued to gossip and swap stories about food, college life, homework…

And finally, sex.

Pierre found himself flustered and flushed, and after a few failed attempts at speaking, he closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

“I haven’t ever had sex. Not w-with a woman, or a… a man,” he admitted.

Félix, ever-so-suave, gently gripped Pierre’s free hand, and with his other hand, tilted Pierre’s chin up with his index and middle fingers. Smiling rakishly, he licked his lips the same way he did when Pierre first spoke to him.

“Would you like to, my sweet?”

 

Larson had a huge grin on his face, both hands balled into fists, bracing either side of his stubbled chin. On the bed, his legs were crossed, and he was hunched over, rocking back and forth a little.

“Ooh-wee, my baby’s first time! How was it? Was he nice? Did it feel good? He didn’t hurt ya or nothin’, did he?!”

Pierre’s eyes were half-lidded, a grin of his own on his face as he folded laundry and placed it back into the basket.

“I fail to see how an exclusive catcher could hurt his pitcher during rather average intercourse,” he said, shooting a sideways glance at Larson.

In an instant, Larson stopped rocking, still smiling, but now his eyes clouded in confusion, brows knitting together. It took him a moment to work out what Pierre had said, and when he did, his smile faded to a more neutral look. Crossing his arms now, he leaned back and rubbed his lips together.

“You were only on top with him? But… when’d ya bottom, then? Did Félix let you…?” he began to ask.

Pierre sighed, placing the basket of folded laundry atop their dresser, and gripped the bottom of his black tank top. Shucking his shirt off, he shuffled the short distance to the bed and flopped backward, stretching out next to Larson

“ _Mon amour,_ Félix was a wonderful man, but… he was not for me. He was more of uh, how you say, my ‘gateway boy’ than someone I wished to settle with. To wit—I liked Félix. But Félix loved me. And I could not bear to treat his emotions like a knock-off Armani watch.”

Larson laid himself down next to Pierre, brushing the back of his hand against Pierre’s bare side. It was quiet for a few moments as they watched the ceiling fan diligently rotate, the occasional traffic noise wafting in from outside.

Larson sighed and turned his head, locking eyes with Pierre—and getting a chill down his spine from just how _damn beautiful_ his boyfriend was—and he shook his head in response.

“I dunno, Boss. I think ya did the right thing. That’s… Thinkin’ on it, that’s prob’ly how Felicity felt about me, y’know? Sometimes yer just not right for each other ‘n ya have to go yer separate ways.”

Pierre grunted in response, still looking into Larson’s eyes. Absently, he reached his left hand out to grab his lover’s right, and the two intertwined their fingers.

“So,” Larson continued, “Whatever happened to Félix?”

Flattening his brow, Pierre said, “We still meet to fuck on Tuesdays. His lips, you see, are like velvet. I could never stay away.”

Pierre thought Larson would slap his chest in a gentle way and laugh, but instead, he went uncharacteristically quiet and looked away. For a moment, Pierre wondered if he had misjudged the time to joke.

Facing Pierre once more, Larson’s face was painted with concern, and after a moment, he spoke meekly.

“Well… c-can I watch?”

It was at this that Pierre burst out laughing, sitting upright with a haste that even surprised him. He couldn’t contain himself, doubling over as Larson leaned on his elbow and side.

“Whaaat?” Larson demanded, “If a guy’s gonna break monogamy, it can’t be a bolt outta the blue like that! I wanna ease into it!”

Wiping tears from his eyes, Pierre uttered, “ _Ça fait mal !”_ and steadied himself on Larson’s shoulder.

“I—” he stopped to chuckle, _“_ I’ve not seen Félix since the day I bid him _adieu_. Ah, _mon amour!_ Your gullibility amuses me so,” he managed to say.

Larson joined Pierre in sitting upright, and responded, “Well, how’s I s’posed to know! I don’t know who yer talkin’ to from school ‘n whatnot.”

Pierre giggled a bit more, shrugging. “I concede this, but you do know I tell you most happenings of my present-day life, _non?”_

Huffing, Larson averted his gaze again while his ears burned red. Hunching forward, he rubbed his ankles as he thought of how to change the subject.

“Uh,” he started, “Well, how’d ya end up… bein’ a treasure hunter, then?” He turned his eyes back to Pierre, and leaned in a little.

“How’d a nice archaeology student start sellin’ relics for thrills?”

 

***

 

After receiving his degree, Pierre was adamant about joining archaeological digs. He went to his professors for recommendations, and with his dedication, he knew he’d be a shoo-in for the next batch of graduates heading off to Africa or Australia.

But dreams often never go as planned.

 _‘Dedication’_ and _‘passion’_ are two different things, one professor told him. She sat him down with tea and biscuits in her office, and told him what his other instructors were reluctant to. Gently she let him down, and Pierre left her office in downtrodden spirits. His last night in his dorm was spent in angry, frustrated tears, downing whatever liquor he had on hand.

Over the course of the next five years, Pierre felt beaten, lost—he’d managed to find a flat in a poor part of Nantes, but it was nothing like he’d ever wanted. Drifting from low-end job to low-end job, his life never felt _fulfilled._ Nothing galvanized his senses anymore, and the spark in his soul during university life was gone.

Even relocating to Paris did nothing for him; his flat there was more downtrodden than last. In fact, it was the absolute worst place he’d ever lived, but Pierre was adamant that he’d be able to live freely one day and make a name for himself.

It was at this time that he began to have multiple encounters with other men… none of whom stayed, most of whom he just used for release, something to stimulate himself and feel _something_ again.

And now, Pierre had just lost another job—and he sat alone, broken in the middle of a Parisian winter at age 33. That Saturday, the whole room seemed to curl inward on him, weighing heavily upon his entire being. While the snow fell past Pierre’s windows, the entire world was crashing down on his shoulders, seeming to remind him that everything was for nothing.

Pierre forced himself up from his bed, shuffling across the squeaky floorboards to the floor, where laid the newspaper he’d despondently tossed aside when he got home from another failed attempt at pounding the pavement.

Unfurling it, he turned to the personals… And immediately, something caught his eye—an advert for Musée national de la Marine. They needed help as soon as possible, and walk-in interviewees were welcome. Bolting upright, Pierre’s eyes went wide, rushing over to the kitchen counter.

Placing the paper down, he read the article over and over again. Cupping a hand over his goatee, he immediately rushed to the restroom to freshen himself up.

And so, there he was—in his nicest suit and his trench coat, Pierre carried a photocopy of his resumé, along with copies of his degree and final exam scores from university so long ago, all tucked away in a manila folder.

As he walked through the museum, he looked around with only a vague interest. The maritime museum, of all places! Try as he might, Pierre couldn’t muster up much of a sense of awe. It was impressive, to be sure, but it held none of the mystery and intrigue of ancient civilizations; there was simply no comparison.

His thoughts were soon interrupted, as he directed his gaze to a short, dark-skinned woman tromping in through the adjoining room. High-heeled and in a navy-blue skirt suit, she looked frazzled—but most importantly was her nametag, indicating she was likely a museum staff member.

Pierre snapped his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly as he reopened them and turned his attention toward the woman.

Readjusting his folder, he forced a smile that was a little too wide, and said, “Why hello, Madame! I’m here to see a Mrs. Jeanne-Marie Robert?”

Stopping mid-strut, the woman regarded Pierre for a moment, straightening the front of her skirt.

“That would be me,” she began. “Would you be a walk-in?”

Pierre nodded, smile still on his face. “Yes, I am! Years ago, I graduated from Universite de Nantes, and it’s always been a dream of mine to work in a prestigious museum like this.”

Jeanne-Marie scoffed, causing Pierre to wince, but nonetheless she motioned for him to follow to her office. Around a corner and up some stairs, and they arrived at an oak wood door labeled ‘MUSEUM DIRECTOR,’ which Jeanne-Marie opened. Ushering Pierre inside, she shut it behind her, seating herself in a soft leather desk chair.

Pierre wasted no time in handing over his manila folder carefully, assuring none of the papers slipped out. Wordlessly, Jeanne-Marie accepted it and paged through the papers one by one.

Meanwhile, Pierre felt himself beginning to sweat. He was going to be out of money soon, and didn’t know what else to do. Wasn’t there _something_ he could do to ensure a victory out of this interview? Make a joke, compliment her suit, speak with her about the museum? Maybe beg or cry?

After what felt like eons, Jeanne-Marie set everything down and balanced her chin and the side of her head in her right index finger and thumb. Blinking rapidly a few times, Pierre chewed his lip as he waited for her to say something—anything. It felt like torture at this point to sustain the silence any more.

Sighing, Jeanne-Marie finally spoke. “Mr. Dupont, you _are_ aware that we’re looking for a receptionist, aren’t you? We don’t need your grades. Can you use a typewriter quickly and accurately? Are you willing to be timed on a typing test? Can you give our guests information from a handbook we’ll supply you? Pass out pamphlets, answer the phone—that sort of thing?”

Pierre was stunned. The advert didn’t say anything about what _sort_ of job it was, just that the museum had a position that needed to be filled as soon as possible.

Clearing his throat, he chuckled nervously, and responded, “I suppose that explains why there was no one to greet me when I came in.”

Jeanne-Marie gave a dry chuckle of her own, and said, “Yes, that would be it.”

Closing his eyes, Pierre sighed, then reopened them again. “I am able to do those things. As my resumé states, I took a job at a call center for two years, and while in university, all my professors required my papers to be typed rather than written. As for giving directions, I’m sure I could learn—”

“Listen,” Jeanne-Marie interjected, before Pierre could ramble on, “You’re comely, well-groomed, well-spoken despite the obvious stress you’re in, and you have previous experience. If you can type at least 50 words a minute with marginal typos, you can have the job, Mr. Dupont. We need a receptionist now.”

Pierre agreed.

 

“Aww, I bet you were the sexiest receptionist there, babe!” Larson interrupted. “Betcha had boys all over you.”

Smirking, Pierre looked up from his position on his stomach, and replied, “ _Oui, merci._ Those were the days when men would offer to take me to dinner several times of the week!”

“Well gol- _lee,”_ Larson guffawed, “Now I know why yer always anglin’ to teach me to cook, ya need someone to pamper you. Shall I rub yer back, Monsieur?”

A boyish grin on his face, he quickly climbed on top of Pierre and curled his hands into fists, then proceeded to knead firmly at his lover’s back muscles. Pierre reacted with a sudden gasp and moan of contentment, smiling lazily as Larson worked his upper back.

Closing his eyes, Pierre continued…

 

***

 

The receptionist job at Musée national de la Marine proved fruitful for Pierre, and over the next eight years, he slowly began to better his life.

First, he moved closer to work in a small flat—the very flat he owned to this day—much nicer than the hovel he’d been staying in. A few new, more modern suits followed, a gym membership, some new appliances… and though no man seemed to stick around, Pierre had a nice selection of well-to-do suitors to choose from.

He had at last established an adult routine of engaging in politics, household maintenance, playing the field, and pursuing happiness…

But it was that last part where he fell short.

When work was slow, Pierre often thought of his childhood, and the forest he’d run to play in. _His_ forest.

Oftentimes he’d picture himself in a forest much like that one; it would be him alone in the wilderness, with nothing but a map, a compass, a backpack, and a book detailing an ancient artifact that he was to discover. He’d find the ruins, gasp in awe, and slowly did he enter, wondering what secrets and perils lie within…

Then a _‘hello!’_ would break his concentration, and it was back to reality.

It wasn’t a _bad_ life, to be sure. He wasn’t struggling as hard anymore, and things seemed to be finally OK for once. But Pierre wanted _more_ out of life. He wanted to see the world, get out of France and away from his problems. Deep down, he had realized that just moving to Paris all those years ago wasn’t, and never would be, enough.

He’d taken to visiting the Louvre on his days off. It was so much better than the maritime museum, to him—paintings and artifacts from all over the world, France’s history contained within a beautiful, stately building that was like an artifact unto itself!

Today was one such day. Even getting there, traffic was much more dense than usual, and attempting to find parking was nearly impossible. So many people today—was there an event going on? Pierre did admit to himself that he hadn’t bothered to check the paper, but it must’ve been quite the spectacle to draw such a crowd.

As he strode up to the Louvre, there seemed to be a buzz of excitement in the air, almost like… an electrical current, riding throughout the minds and hearts of those present. Pierre couldn’t help but notice it, but brushed it aside as the common folk’s excitement, their love of the unknown.

Nothing was provocative anymore for Pierre Dupont; his hum-drum life would never become greater than this. After all, he dragged himself out of poverty—what more could he ask for?

In the lobby of the Louvre, a pop-up stage had been set up, and on it stood an intricate painting at least 8 meters tall by 5 meters wide. Delicately painted, at its center was horned red devil, looking up at the ceiling of the lavish room it was in. Silver and gold strewn across the lying sofa it was draped over. Despite its wealth, the devil seemed… well, ‘crushed by despair’ was the only way Pierre could put it.

There were cracks in the paint, a certain yellow grime across the front of it. But even with the flaws of age, this ancient art was _beautiful._ Pierre found himself floored, his mouth agape at the majesty of the artifact. It was nothing like he’d ever seen.

On the stage, in front of the gargantuan painting, a black-suited officiate was obviously smitten by, and failing to charm, a woman just slightly taller than him. Caucasian, brown-eyed brunette, and wearing a braided ponytail, she stood straight, hands laced together. Pierre instantly recognized her dress from the Prada catalogue of that year.

A glimmering, sleek burgundy dress that fit her figure well. On her ears were diamond studs that he swore had to be Tiffany. As she shifted, a well-muscled leg slipped out of the tasteful slit on her dress, revealing black matte pumps with a strapped ankle.

Whoever she was, she was all wealth and class—and suddenly Pierre felt extremely inadequate in his business casual blazer.

The officiate had picked up the microphone from its stand, and barked in an overly-chipper voice for a man who was just rejected by a veritable goddess.

“Everyone,” the man began, “Thank you all for attending the unveiling of _Le diable au désespoir_. This gorgeous—and massive—painting is a kind donation by Europe’s sweetheart and rising international star… Ms. _Lara Croft_!”

Lara Croft?

Pierre blinked a few times. _This_ was Lara Croft?

He’d heard of her in passing, his coworkers mentioning the name ‘Croft’ more and more often in the past year. The rumor mill ran fervently whenever Lara Croft was mentioned; the current news was that she had apparently found a major discovery: the recipe for Greek fire, found in the middle of Egypt, of all places. It was written in a coded script that would’ve taken any common scholar decades to crack, but Lara had unraveled it in mere months—and it turned out that Greek fire was much older than previous thought.

It was a revolution on an entire perspective of an era, sparking new debates between historians that raged to that day. And what did Lara do? Walked away with the original recipe, a bold smile on her face, purportedly to add it to her personal collection.

Pierre had imagined her as a comic book heroine, a tale of fancy, a story to keep morale up in a boring existence.

Yet here she was. In the flesh. Really real.

Lara Croft.

The mic was passed to her when the officiate finished with his speech, and hushed voices fell over the crowd as she began to speak.

“Thank you very much,” she began, in flawless French, “though the bit about me being ‘a modern-day Amazon’ was a bit tongue-in-cheek.”

The crowd giggled, and looking around him, Pierre thought he could see several people nearly swoon.

“Nonetheless,” Lara continued, “I needn’t any praise. The real reason I’ve so generously donated this sad red chap is because he wouldn’t fit in my private vault. I’d need to rip the doors off my home up to the second-floor windows, and I’ve given my poor live-in butler enough grief this past year.”

And the crowd laughed, which segued into applause, which quickly ramped up into cheering.

Lara continued with a story about how she had been exploring a tomb beneath an island far northwest of Wales. She foraged her way through the ancient stone walls, vaulting past pitfalls and crawling beneath spiked ceilings. At one point, she’d made a wrong step, and down from the ceiling came a spring-loaded rain of arrows—but Lara had simply performed a deft side aerial flip to make it past unscathed.

It was at this point that Pierre wondered if his initial assessment of her being a comic book heroine was accurate after all.

As the speech wound down, the crowd began to mingle about, people filtering in and out of the front doors. Lara had left the stage, and Pierre was determined to meet her. Taking a tentative step onstage, he approached the officiate—who he noticed he was also taller than—and smiled.

“Why good day, sir!” Pierre began, trying to mask his giddiness as cockiness. “I wanted to take some time to thank you for hosting this wonderful event. You have excellent diction.”

The officiate looked up from his drink with a skeptical look on his face, but stayed silent.

Pierre nodded, and continued, “What I’m dying to know, however, is your lovely co-hostess—Croft, she was? I was hoping to meet and thank her as—”

“Forget it, kid,” the officiate spat, laughing. “Croft booked it outta here as soon as she was done giving that bullshit story. I heard she has some weirdo aunt—I bet she painted this, and Croft paid the Louvre a hefty sum to have it stashed away in one of the dustier corridors.”

Smile still on his face, Pierre replied, “Thank you for your time, and for not wasting mine, _kind_ sir.”

Turning, his smile turned to a scowl as he made a beeline for the door.

Lara Croft.

Though he may never meet her, Pierre was determined to learn everything about her that he could.

 

***

 

_Croft._

He ate, drank, slept, and breathed _Croft._

Pierre bought subscriptions to every archaeology, ancient history, and adventuring magazine out there—even the tabloids. Any scrap on Lara, he cut out of the magazine and pasted into a scrapbook.

So busy was Pierre that the men in his life fell by the wayside, and he outright ignored those who’d felt jilted.

At night, he would pour over his scrapbook again and again, affirming repeatedly that she was real, that she really _lived_ like this—that a life like hers was _possible._

They called her the Tomb Raider.

Pierre learned many things about Lara Croft in those next six months.

Her signature nickel-plated Browning Hi-Power guns, her blue leotard worn under brown short-shorts, secured by a belt with a custom-made square bronze buckle…

Her adventures to daring locations like West Africa, Japan, the coldest heights of Sweden, Syria…

Each new bit of information about Lara that Pierre read was like a key turning in a lock, rusty and slow, but surely opening a door that long lay shut. And he knew that once that door was open, there was no closing it again.

He began to plan, carefully and in silence, his next move.

First was the process of acquiring a shooting sport license. He now knew that he couldn’t go into the depths of peril unarmed. When he went to purchase his firearms, Pierre had decided he’d take two—a pair of IMI Desert Eagle Mark I’s, which fit nicely in black leather holsters meant to go over his thighs.

Next would come the attire. If Lara was anything, it was the epitome of _class._ Pierre would need to match—no, _surpass_. And so, he took his best white dress shirt and his fancy navy-blue waistcoat with the gold buttons, and modeled them for himself in front of his restroom mirror. Frowning, he felt it was yet _missing_ something—plain dress pants made him no more forgettable than usual.

Dipping into a large chunk of change, he bought an expensive pair of gray canvas pants, which touted long-lasting durability. Black ankle-high boots, with strong slip resistance on the outsole, went well with the whole outfit… but it still didn’t _speak_ to him.

And so, tossing the scrapbook aside, Pierre took up a new hobby—hunting in thrift shop after thrift shop, biding his time, looking for the final piece to his ensemble that would make him look like the archaeologist-adventurer he knew he always could be.

A few months into his search, Pierre entered a nameless secondhand shop that, later in life, he searched up and down for, but never could find again. A kindly older gentleman smiled at him from his historical fiction novel, but otherwise remained seated on his stool. That was fine by Pierre—the less time wasted, the better.

Taking himself to their selection of coats, he frowned. As he scanned through them, brushing each one against his fingers, not a single one felt _right_ to his touch. It seemed as though the search would continue, and he’d have to continue on indeterminately…

When his fingertips ran across a soft, worn brown leather.

It almost seemed to call to him. Carefully pulling it off its hanger, he saw the back was emblazoned with an eagle, soaring proudly and freely through the jacket’s brown sky.

He put it on immediately, the arms fitting comfortably around his own, the jacket’s torso ending at just the right spot, several centimeters below his waist.

This was it. This was his jacket. And as far as Pierre was concerned, it was _always_ his. It almost seemed like a crime to pay for something that seemed to belong to him, but a few francs for a priceless possession wasn’t much.

When he went to the register, the man smiled, and said, “Ah, I’ve been wondering when someone would pick that one up!”

Pierre laughed politely, taking his wallet out and preparing to pass the asking price to the cashier. The old man placed a bookmark in his novel and set it on the counter. Standing up, he sighed, and his smile faded.

“Yes, she’s a real beaut. I heard her previous owner was some manner of explorer—only gave her up because he realized he was gettin’ too old for the trade.”

“Perhaps,” Pierre began as he handed over the money, “the jacket was merely seeking a new owner.”

The old cashier smiled as Pierre headed out the door and bade him to “Keep the change!”

Even if the story was a lie, it was enough for Pierre.

 

***

 

At home, he made the arrangements to be flown out of the country. Gun laws were a concern; his most recent ex-boyfriend owed him a favor, and his father owned a private jet, so Pierre decided now was the time to call that favor in.

His destination, Russia. He would be in search of the Heart of Kikimora. After all, it had been one year since the dissolution of the Soviet Union—the perfect time to prowl around for secrets.

The night before his flight, Pierre could scarcely sleep, giddy in a childlike way he hadn’t been for years. Thus, when morning arrived, he jumped straight out of bed. After a quick shower, he pulled on a BIKE-brand white jock strap, and proceeded to transform himself in his complete adventurer’s attire.

On came soft and thick white socks, which he fastened in place on his calf with black sock garters. Next was white dress shirt—he elected leave a few buttons undone to expose a bit of chest hair—followed by the gray canvas pants. Ensuring his dress shirt was tucked in neatly, Pierre secured his brown leather belt through his trouser loops.

Next, he pulled his waistcoat over his shoulders, only doing the bottom two buttons so his dress shirt could be seen. Then, his black boots were fitted on snugly yet comfortably. After all was done, he wasted no time in fastening his gun holsters over his pants; it wouldn’t do to leave the look incomplete!

When he was dressed, Pierre decided to look at himself in the restroom mirror again… and this time, he felt himself choking back tears.

He was no longer the sad, unfulfilled 41-year-old museum receptionist. No—no, now he was the rival of Indiana Jones.

All he’d known, all he’d done, all he’d _felt_ was leading to this.

Pierre Dupont was finally going to realize the dreams he’d had so long ago as a boy.

After holstering the dual magnum pistols he’d bought, he knew it was time to add the missing piece to his ensemble.

In his closet hung the leather coat, hanging out separately from the rest of his outerwear. Gulping, he grabbed it with a steady hand and dropped the hanger to the floor; it bounced with a _clang_ before resting on his pair of dress shoes.

He put his left arm through, then his right, and when the jacket was on, he smoothed the collar out on his chest.

It was time. An adventurer was born, right there, right then.

Picking up his pack of supplies, he left his flat, locking the door tight and dropping a copy of the key off with his neighbor. He would leave his letter of resignation from Musée national de la Marine in a city mailbox, and maybe Mrs. Robert would get it on time. It was no longer Pierre’s concern.

 

“Wow,” Larson interrupted once more. “So… ya really did start usin’ two guns to be like Lara, huh?”

Pierre nodded. “It was her impact, you see.”

At this, Larson laughed. He was shirtless now too, hairy back laying on his and Pierre’s duvet. Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers across its stitched pattern. It was surely past midnight now—they’d been talking for so long. Larson wondered if takeout pizza would be in order, but instead of voicing this thought, he shook his head.

“I guess, then,” he began, “We really oughta thank Lara sometime. We’d have never met if it weren’t fer her.”

A wry grin spreading across Pierre’s face, he shrugged.

“ _Oui, mon amour._ There’s no denying that.”

 

***

 

He’d done it. Back at his flat in France, he marveled once more at the silver relic shaped like a human heart. Over and over he turned it in hands, caressing each and every bump and nook, his fingers carefully skimming over the multitude of rubies inlaid periodically across it.

The Heart of Kikimora was real, in his hands, and priceless.

Gently, he wrapped the Heart back up in the bandanna he’d bought specifically to hold it. And as he finished, the phone rang. Absently, he wondered if it would be Mrs. Robert again, begging him to come back to his dead-end job at the maritime museum.

“Hello,” came a refined female voice, speaking French with a heavy English accent. It wasn’t exactly what Pierre had expected.

The caller attempted to continue in her abysmal French.

“I’d prefer talking to you over Heart of Kikimora. News is released, Mr. Dupont—trying to sale?”

Pierre interjected, “ _Arrêtez, Madame._ I can speak English if you would prefer. What is this about the Heart of Kikimora, and _s’il vous plaît,_ tell me how you found out that I have it.”

“Oh! Dear me! Where are my manners,” the woman chortled, “I should’ve simply asked. I haven’t spoken conversational French in _years,_ not since my schooling at least. My, my, my, what’s to become of me?”

Pierre stifled a sigh as he leaned against the wall, cocking his head to the right as he listened to the woman prattle on.

“It’s to my understanding that you’ve found the Heart of Kikimora. The news is everywhere, dear Monsieur Dupont. The man who handled your luggage was well-rewarded for spreading this information. You’re something of a celebrity in my circles!”

At this, Pierre’s eyes widened, and his lips pursed shut. He hadn’t had the time to check any of his magazine subscriptions since he’d come home—he’d really needed to cancel those—and had no idea of what the current climate was like.

But sure enough, as he walked over to the pile of mail he’d dropped by the front door, Pierre spied the word ‘Kikimora’ plastered on the front of _Archaeologist Weekly_. He had proven Kikimora, in some fashion, was real—or at least worshiped at one point.

Backing away in shock, a wave of joy crashed into him, knocking him speechless.

So, this is how it felt. This is what Lara Croft feels every time she made a new find. This is what it was like to be a famous adventurer.

“…Oh, excuse me, blathering about nonsense in a business call. My name is Maribel Corryn, and I’ve quite the selection of choice rarities such as the morsel in your possession. Monsieur Dupont, I would love it if we could discuss a price on the Heart.”

Brows furrowing, Pierre felt his cheeks flush as he responded.

“ _Non!_ A treasure like this, it is meant to be shared with the world! Madame Corryn, it is mine. I found it and I will not simply sell it.”

Scoffing into the phone—and making no effort to conceal it, for that matter—Mrs. Corryn chose her next words carefully.

“Dear Monsieur Dupont,” she persuaded, “Your words wound me! I merely wish to make you a rich man. I can easily pay you 800,000 francs for this. You think I’m kidding? This is naught but pocket change to me, especially for the Heart of Kikimora. It’s the stuff of legend, man!”

Pierre felt torn; in all his research, he had never heard of Lara Croft outright selling her artifacts to further her wealth. If his quest was to be like her, what should he do with this artifact?

It would be wise, he decided, to at least arrange a face-to-face meeting with Mrs. Corryn. And so, the date was set for two weeks from now: she gets the artifact if she writes the check and accompanies him to cash it. Plenty of time to break the meeting, when Pierre changed his mind…

Except, he never did.

Every night until the meeting, he thought of how his family had struggled when he was a boy, and how his struggle continued in university, and even as an adult. He thought of the forest he would visit as a child, and realized that perhaps he only played there because it was the only place he could go to escape from his hardships caused by lack of wealth.

Perhaps it was selfish. No, Pierre knew it _was—_ but he didn’t want to live through anything like that ever again. He didn’t want to have to run under a tree and pretend he was born from nature and he was merely returning to it. He didn’t want to have to rely on men he’d slept with for favors. And he _certainly_ never wanted to go back to the boring, drab maritime museum.

The night before he sold the Heart of Kikimora to Mrs. Corryn, he went behind a derelict building, armed with a lighter and a canister of petrol.

In his arms was his Lara Croft scrapbook, the one he’d painstakingly pasted articles and images into, the same scrapbook he spent so many nights pouring over again and again in hopes of perhaps becoming like her.

Throwing the scrapbook into the dirt, Pierre doused it in the petrol. Then he lit the lighter, wasting no time in tossing it onto the book.

As he watched it go up in flames, there was a certain coldness in his eyes. He kept his hands in his pants pockets as he watched it burn down to charred remainders.

After stomping the fire out beneath his heel, he turned and left without looking back once.

He wasn’t Lara. He would never _be_ Lara. And honestly? He never wanted to become like her.

Pierre sold the Heart of Kikimora the next day for a princely sum, and bought himself a new refrigerator, soft pajamas, some designer jock straps, and three sets of red silk sheets.

 

***

 

“…From there, I began to take more and more jobs. I had become a treasure hunter, or perhaps rather a hunter of fortune,” Pierre finished.

“And that’s what led you ‘n me to meet up in Nicaragua?” Larson asked.

“Correct,” Pierre replied.

As they laid there in bed, Larson threw an arm around Pierre, pulling him tight and planting a kiss on his forehead. Sighing through his nose, Pierre returned the embrace, then closed the short distance between their lips, kissing Larson with a delicate passion.

Pulling away, Larson exhaled sharply, and said, “Gosh, Pierre. I… I’m really sorry yer life’s been, well… kinda shit.”

Shrugging slightly, Pierre reluctantly broke the embrace to shut off his bedside lamp, but hastily snuggled back deep into his boyfriend’s arms.

After giving it a bit of thought, Pierre finally gave a reply.

“Well,” he said, “it has certainly not been made of honey. But ah,” he paused, gazing into the heaven that was his cowboy’s eyes in the darkness.

“I have you now, _non?_ ”

Resting his head in the crook of Larson’s neck, Pierre closed his eyes.

“The past, it is unchangeable—but the present is sweeter than I could ever have imagined.”


End file.
